


Grimmy, Dearest

by redpineapple



Category: Bleach
Genre: Anal Sex, Fourth Wall, Humor, M/M, Sex In A Cave, Snow Globe, Teasing, Yaoi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-04-10
Packaged: 2017-11-26 23:17:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/655471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redpineapple/pseuds/redpineapple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After their battle in Hueco Mundo, Grimmjow's needs some time to recuperate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Birthday fic for starfire1423, she simply demanded GrimmIchi. 
> 
> This is a multi-chap. The full version is up on my FFn account (same pen name) and you can read it there if you're impatient. I just want to re-edit a little before uploading the full version, so the update schedule should be pretty regular.
> 
> Disclaimer: not a chance in hell.

Caves were, Grimmjow decided, like snow globes.

Always so much fun in the beginning; the whole finding and subsequent exploration side of the deal.  
Then, gradually, as the novelty wore off and the inevitable damp pong mixed with the mouldy smell of whatever animals had taken a shit there most recently began to wear on him, the realisation came that maybe caves weren’t so great after all.

Not that any of this had much to do with snow globes –just the novelty part.

Grimmjow couldn’t honestly say he cared; he’d been sitting in this draughty asshole of the coastline for weeks now, and the seasonal chill was getting to him.

He was, however, far too manly to pull the thick comforter that the damnable strawberry minded fool had left for him over his most definitely not shivering form.

Substitute bloody Shinigami? Che, who the hell was he subbing for anyway?

Grimmjow wasn’t sure of it was the notion of the brat that had worsened his mood or the realisation that he had no freaking idea why the punk was a Soul Reaper in the first place. 

He decided on the former, idly wondering why the damned brat was anywhere near his thoughts. It certainly wasn’t any kind of friendly curiosity.

Setting flame haired idiots aside for the minute, the Sexta lifted a clawed hand to his chin, scratching lightly and finding irritation in the few days of electric blue stubble he found there.

He sighed, looking down at himself and glaring at some cave-gunk that had gathered on his white clad thigh. He picked at it, wincing a little as his overlong talons dug in –Grimmjow Jaegerjaques was not a creature accustomed to being gentle, a move not helped by the swap of his Espada uniform for his warmer released form. The former having been shredded to the point of uselessness during his defeat at Ichigo’s, and later Nnoitora’s hands in Hueco Mundo. Not that he accepted this outcome, he was merely biding his time and recuperating to allow for a proper, all out fight while neither of them was battle weary and the redhead had nothing to concern him other than his opponent.

Abandoning the gunk, he drew his knees up to his chest, bowing his head to allow his cobalt mullet to cover as much skin as possible.

Minutes passed, or perhaps only seconds, the Sexta wasn’t known for his patience.  
He huffed loudly, half wishing he had an audience for his boredom, if only to provide an outlet for his newly repressed violent tendencies. At this point he would have settled for an unsuspecting passerby to scream ‘fuck off’ at.

Growling slightly, he rose to his feet. Slouched back and felt around for the absent pockets of his missing Espada uniform. Curse the cold for making him sustain his resureccion form. 

Stepping a few paces further on his slim, sharply fetlocked ankles, he moved deeper into the dim tunnel. He shucked his form down by the wall closest to his makeshift ‘bed’, which was really more of a nest-type affair; majorly comprised of a few blankets and the odd scruffy pillow.

Pushing his scant number of newly acquired personal items aside, he searched for the lone source of entertainment Kurosaki had left for him –a much-loved paperback copy of ‘A Clockwork Orange’.

Like all Arrancars, Grimmjow had no memories of his mortal life. But he must have learned to read at some point, quite fluently, at that. His visual cortex was intimately acquainted with the fluid kanji that strolled across the yellowed pages of the novel.

Bringing his legs around to the traditional ‘crossed’ position, the Sexta flipped through the thin text to his page, mentally settling in.

**.  .        .**

It could have been minutes or hours before Grimmjow placed the book carefully if begrudgingly, at his side.

Before him stood that damned strawberry: head held high and jeans just that little bit too tight.

Gorgeous and statuesque in the evanescent twilit hour.

Not that Grimmjow noticed this, of course. He merely recalled a description that that irritating Inoue girl had laid upon her favourite asshole.

“’Sup, Grimmy.” Leered Ichigo, plopping himself down opposite the Sexta, knees pulled to his chest.

The overgrown kitty grunted in response, purposely not engaging the young Shinigami is eye contact as his hand fumbled blindly for the discarded novel, holding his pretence as gently as he’d ever held anything.

“I brought food,” Kurosaki continued, chucking the bundle towards Grimmjow, well used to the elder’s antics. “Clothes, too. Figured you’re probably well enough to be self sufficient at this point, but I didn’t want you out terrifying the humans in that crazy Furry-Otaku getup. Seriously man, you look like the escaped employee of a fetish bar. Best case scenario.”

This got Grimmy’s attention. He thought his resurreccion lent him an air of distinction, even a certain mystique. Certainly nothing like this ‘Furry-Otaku’ crap the Shinigami was on about. Not that he had the slightest idea what either was.

His lip curled in a soft growl and his long ears flickered in annoyance.

“I don’t recall you having any problem with my resemblance to a cat.” Because that’s what Grimmjow thought Ichigo had been on about with ‘furry’. “In fact, _Kurosaki Sensei,_ I remember . . . “

The faux feline never finished his sentence. Ichigo’s calloused hand came over his thin lipped mouth, though with little effect –the Shinigami’s hand was dwarfed by the ex-Espada’s wide, lascivious grin.

“Defensive . . . ” came the muffled word, seeping around Ichigo’s hand.

Ichigo shivered, swiftly but unwillingly retracting his hand as the soft slickness of the kitty’s tongue slid over the hard skin of his palm.

“There are things I can remind you of, _Grimmy dearest._ Now, meow for me, Honey.”  Ichigo’s sarcasm was not lost on the kitty. He scowled at the Shinigami in lieu of a response.

Slinking back to the opposite wall, the soul reaper threw some jeans, a raggedy pair of boxers and an old grey wifebeater singlet clumsily at the Sexta.

Refusing to meet the ex-Espada’s gaze, he determinedly examined the erratic progress of an ant beside him, letting the words fall softly, guiltily from his mouth.

“Couldn’t find any spare shoes. S’far as I know, your feet weren’t hurt in our fight, so I assumed you’d be right for footwear.”

“Yeah.” Muttered the Sexta, examining the pile: “Che’yeah right, like I’m wearing your cast-off knickers.”

The boy looked at him then, cocking an eyebrow as if asking what other options Grimmjow had.

“Seriously, you _wore_ these? They’ve got steroid midgets all over them. Bet you didn’t even wash them, you perv.”

“They’re washed, dickwad. And I had a _Dragonball Z_ stage a few years ago, so shut up. They’re the only knickers you’ve got.”

 _Dragonball Z?_ Wondered Grimmjow, tossing the unfamiliar phrase into the folder in his mind marked ‘Stupid Human Crap’.

“ . . . I’d rather go commando.” Grimmjow smirked at the quickly masked longing that flashed on the Shinigami’s face.

“Well,” he said, rising to his feet, with a grin that Ichigo didn’t trust, “Since you were so nice as to bring me clothes, I guess I should get changed.”

Willing himself from his release form, the Sexta watched the younger gulp at his barely healed, newly exposed chest. Privately, he hoped that now he no longer had to hold his release, the scars would fade –some defeats were better forgotten.

Shrugging off the remains of his jacket, he began work on the ties of his hakama.

“If you’re enjoying the view that much,” commented the ex-Espada, taking in the expression sitting on Ichigo’s face, “You could come help me? It _is_ your fault that I’m injured, isn’t it?”

Looking nowhere near as guilty as Grimmjow would have liked, Ichigo rose, moving towards the Sexta wordlessly.

“And who brought you food, medicine, kept you from becoming ‘Japan’s most wanted’?” asked the Soul Reaper, hands replacing Grimmjow’s on the loose Hakama strings.

Now on the same physical level, Ichigo’s brown eyes focused purely on Grimmjow’s teal ones.

Neither backed down from the unspoken challenge.

The silence stretched, seconds whirring passed.

“You’ve forgotten how to use those opposable thumbs. Be useful.”

Ichigo smirked at the Sexta, freeing the ties of the hakama to fall, effectively releasing the entire garment for Grimmjow to lightly step out of.

Out of and toward Ichigo.

The teen couldn’t honestly say he was surprised that the Arrancar’s threat of knickerlessness was already a reality. 


	2. Chapter Twp

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not owning Bleach

_Out of and toward Ichigo._

_The teen couldn’t honestly say he was surprised that the Arrancar’s threat of knickerlessness was already a reality_

. . . .

Not that he looked at the kitty’s favourite area. It was pure intuition. Definitely not with a strong side of longing at what was certainly remaining unseen: Grimmjow’s length, the sloping ridges of his muscles (Having spent weeks in a cave, Ichigo wondered briefly how he’d managed to maintain their condition), the contoured valley of his hipbones.

Grimmjow’s slow chuckle brought him back.

“Like what you see? I would have thought you’d be used to bare cocks with that sexually repressed Quincy always sniffing around your Soul Reaper ass.”

The Shinigami felt goose bumps erupt over his arms. Nearly forgetting to reply under the realisation of just where his thoughts had allowed his eyes to fall to.

“The only ass Uryu is interested in is Inoue’s, Grimmy.”

Ichigo decided that lying was better than giving Grimmjow the satisfaction of being right about Uryu’s orientation.

“Whatever, just get me my clothes.”

It was an indication of just how uncomfortable the Shinigami was that he complied immediately and without comment.

Ichigo shuffled the few feet to the discarded pile of his and Isshin’s cast-offs, bending from the hips to retrieve them. Hands full of clothes, Ichigo turned to the overly appealing sight of what the Shinigami supposed was the Sexta’s release form.

‘Supposed’ being the operative word.

With the sharp white of his armour discarded, the ex-Espada’s lithe, pale legs sat perpendicular to each other, bent at the knees and radiating out from his thickly muscled torso. He was spread out like a slut to reveal the phallus half obscured by teal curls that languished between the kitty’s thighs. Soft tendrils of electric blue mullet offering only the most meagre of protection.

Sexta, indeed.

Ichigo’s initial reaction, before even quite realising what was happening, was that in all his hand-held fantasies, he’d imagined the ex-Espada to be better equipped, especially when taking proportions into account. In their previous encounters, the urgency (and later disgust) had prevented any proper examination, so he’d never really had the opportunity to view the Sexta’s offering with the rest of his luscious body in the shot.

Not that Grimmjow was poorly endowed by any stretch; just not as big as Ichigo might have hoped.

Did he just think ‘hoped’?

Warming to the sight, Ichigo decided against the allowing the kitty the knowledge of his success.

Clothes forgotten, he let his eyes slide along the sculpted frame. Down the twisting muscles that ringed his arms, admiring the soft bulge that accumulated in his biceps as he leaned back into the loose pose. Moving along the well-formed pectorals; flicking over twin pert nipples and roving down to adore the definition in his abdominals. His eyes traced the faint trail of blueness that lead to Grimmjow’s manliness.

Dragging his eyes back to the Arrancar’s face, he winked into the faltering grin on Grimmjow’s face.

“Mmmm, who’s a horny kitty?”


End file.
